


One of My Sons is an Idiot

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Insults, Neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes childhood angst, with neglect, clear favoritism, and emotional abuse through comparison and insults.</p><p>One of Mummy Holmes's sons is an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of My Sons is an Idiot

He's seven and a half, and they're gushing over his little brother. 

"Talking already, can you believe it?"

"And his first word was 'Mummy!'"

Mycroft is happy. He hasn't told Mummy that that wasn't Sherlock's first word (it was "bear"). He's been talking to Sherlock as often as he can. The baby fascinates him. Mummy comes alive when she talks about Sherlock to her friends, who are all cooing and giggling.

Mycroft sits on a stool, a book in his hands. He glances up periodically to watch Sherlock. Mummy has provided many things for Mycroft's life and well-being, but none so important as baby Sherlock. 

Mycroft lets the women coo, relaxing into classic literature that boys at uni might read in their spare time. 

When the friends leave, Mummy says, "You never talked that early, Mycroft. You were a bit dull." Her smile is very kind except the eyes.

"Mm," he says, and turns the page.

"He's so full of life, isn't he?" Mummy says about Sherlock. "Too bad you weren't talking this quickly. It's a real shame. Maybe you wouldn't be so quiet." She's acting like she's just teasing him, but they know she isn't. It's far more serious than that.

"My, will you come here and change his nappy?"

Mycroft nods and pointedly does not speak to his mother as she rests her eyes. Spending time with her friends has clearly exhausted her. Mycroft knows instinctively that it was his stimulation of the baby's mind through stories and play and chats about everything he could think of that helped Sherlock start to speak. Mummy talks about Sherlock, but she rarely talks to him.

Mycroft knows Sherlock is a very smart baby. He wishes he would have been as good a baby as Sherlock. He did hear Mummy say once that he hadn't cried as much as Sherlock does, and that he had slept more. He's not sure whether he can believe that or not. She'd seemed rather frustrated at Sherlock at the time.

***

Mycroft is ten years old. They're on a walk, just him and little Sherlock, who he calls Sherly because Mummy always does.

"My, what's this one?" Sherlock demands. 

"Oak."  

"You didn't check!" 

Mycroft sighs, flipping through the book for the right page. He holds out the heavy book toward Sherlock, who peers over the edge, finally seeming satisfied.

There are a slew of further identifications that are demanded of him, together with proof, as they head a bit further into the woods.

When he's trying to find the page number for Rowan, he gets distracted, leaning against a trunk as Sherlock muddies his shoes and whoops aloud.

"What's this stuff?" Sherlock asks.

"One moment," Mycroft says, admiring the images for a moment too long. He sees his mistake as soon as he looks up. He knows just what it is that Sherlock is talking about. "Poison oak," he comments. "Sherlock," he says, trying to stay calm so as not to set his brother off. "Sherly, please come away from there."

"Poison? If I eat it, will I die?" 

Mycroft isn't sure, but he won't have Sherlock experimenting with his life on the line. 

"Come here, Sherly," he says gently. "I'll let you carry the book part of the way."

"You will?" Sherlock is too small to be carrying it for long, but it's good incentive.

"Yes. You'll just have to do two things for me."

"What are they?" Sherlock holds out his hands for the book, but Mycroft won't step into the poison oak to get to him.

"One, you simply need to come back with me to the main path so we can head home."

Sherlock is waiting for the other one, the one that will actually be unexpected. "And two?"

"Two, you need to let us put some medicine on you." He sees the face Sherlock makes. "You don't feel as if you need it yet, but you soon will." His voice is steady, sure. He holds out the book and waits for Sherlock to come out of the poison oak.

"But," Sherlock whispers as they start toward the path, "would I have died if I ate it?"

Mycroft smiles and indulgently says, "Perhaps."

***

Mummy yanks the book from Sherlock's proud hands. "He did what?" she says to Mycroft, her voice low but full of tension. Sherlock watches, not particularly upset because none of the tension is aimed at him. He misses the book, but Mummy is more interesting when she's like this. She's alive. Alive at Mycroft, which is a little regrettable sometimes, but it's still worth it.

"I wasn't watching where we were going," Mycroft finally says. "It slipped my mind."

"I doubt that," Mummy says. "Don't lie."

Mycroft looks at Sherlock. There's something desperate about Mycroft's gaze that puzzles his little brother. "I looked away for a moment, and he was already touching the plant," he says.

"Better," says Mummy. "That sounds like little Sherly."

"Can I have the medicine, please?" Mycroft finally asks. "I'll help him with it. I promise."

"I'm sure you will," Mummy says, looking at Mycroft with that calmness he doesn't like. "You're not a very good influence, are you? Lying, neglecting, begging. It's your fault he's in this mess. You didn't teach him better. Is that right?"

Mycroft looks at Sherlock. "That's right," he says. He offers out his hand for the heavy book. Mummy hands it over, and he finds the proper place on the shelf. 

"Sherlock, you head on into your room and make sure all the skin that touched the plant is exposed." 

Sherlock scowls, but he does as she says.

"Maybe you shouldn't be leading any more nature walks," Mummy says with a chuckle that doesn't feel like a real tease. "You don't belong in nature. You're not like regular little boys, My. You don't do anything. You're dull."

She starts to head to the medicine cabinet to look for the lotion. 

"Mummy?" he asks softly.

"Yes?"

"Is there any way," he swallows. He forces himself to start again, seeing how his mother is losing patience. "Is there any way I can stop being dull?"

She laughs. It's a cruel laugh, deep and coming from endless pools of mirth. "Oh, that's so rich, My. See, this is why you're dull. This is it exactly. Don't change, ever." She's still laughing as she goes to get the medicine.

Mycroft eyes Sherlock's muddied footprints on the carpet. Mycroft had stepped carefully. There is no mud, nothing that says "Mycroft was here". Mycroft is dull.

***

"You thought you'd just let him run around and set fire to things," she says, quirking a brow with an amusement he doesn't like.

"That was not my intention," he offers carefully.

"You can't do what you intend, can you?" she asks Mycroft, who is twelve years old. "You haven't the capacity. Oh, it's rich. The little scientist is a free spirit, Mycroft. You're as dull as your father, but there's more to it. I never saw it til now."

Sherlock is playing in the ashes on the desk, only casually listening to what Mycroft and Mummy are on about.

Mycroft doesn't want to ask. What he wants is to get away. But he's keenly aware that he is supposed to ask Mummy what she means. "Dearest Mummy," he says, trying to push affection and respect into the tone as well as possible. "please tell me what it is you now see."

Mummy stands up to her full height. "That you are an idiot," she sneers.

Sherlock's hand draws idle shapes in the ashes as he looks up. Surely Mycroft won't let her say that to him. Sherlock wouldn't let her.

"You're a stupid little moron." She smiles pleasantly, but her eyes are cruel. 

Mycroft flinches. She pushes a bit more.

"You don't have a single useful thought in your head."

Mycroft looks at the floor, willing himself not to give too much away.

"You wake up and lower the IQ of the whole street."

Mycroft keeps his posture relaxed as best he can, lightly folds his hands together behind his back, takes his punishment. 

"Maybe part of it was me," Sherlock says, after deciding he doesn't like the way Mycroft is just standing there.

Mummy turns to Sherlock. Mycroft tenses, but there's no reason to. After all, all she says is, "Now that's what I call thinking. No more fires, dear, but you should tell me about your experiment. My, you should sit down and have a listen too." She smiles at Mycroft, and it's actually as warm as it ever gets.

***

"You're just bitter because Mummy loves me and won't love you."

Mycroft sits down on the bed, hard. He's fourteen. "Do you believe that?" he asks.

"It's the facts, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps.

"Here are some facts for you. You know I can read people better than you can." Sherlock's expression shows that he does know it, but he won't say it. "She loves no one, Sherlock. She's incapable."

"Not true," Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. "She just can't love _you_. But maybe it's because she gets you to act all weak."

Mycroft looks at the ground and says, "Weakness is how you see it?" Sherlock says nothing. "Well, caring is not an advantage." By the time he looks up again, Sherlock has left the room.


End file.
